Shatter
by KuroFullbuster
Summary: Life is a game. To see how many times you dan crack before you break. To see how many times you can break before you shatter. To see how many times you can shatter before you are reduced to nothing. Gray has shattered one too many times. Death fic.


**Ciao, people! Here's another angsty oneshot where all the shit in the world happens to poor Gray...:(**

**I mean, I really, really, REALLY love the guy, but I also love to torture him...(you may now commence in throwing rocks)**

**WARNING: This is rated T for a reason! At the end there is detailed self-inflicted pain(cutting) and it may seem disturbing to some people. If you don't like blood, cutting, or suicide PLEASE do not read! This may seem excessive but I don't want people freaking out on me. Don't say I didn't warn you.**

**But if you love angst and depressing stuff(like me) please enjoy:)**

**Please expect minor grammar errors, as English is not my first language(I'm working on it!)**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Fairy Tail Gray would not have lost the first round of the damned games...^**

**...**

_'Life is but a game._

_To see_

_How many times you can be hit_

_Till you crack;_

_How many times you can crack_

_Till you break;_

_How many times you can break_

_Till you shatter;_

_How many times you can shatter;_

_Till you are reduced to nothing.'_

_-Erin Ginshi_

_**Shatter**_

He'd been hit countless times. Both figuratively and literally.

Really, it wasn't his fault that his mother seldom had a sober day; nor was it his fault that she had let herself get knocked up on one of those many drunk days she had. It wasn't his fault that young children needed to be taken care of; that he wasn't self-sufficent from the day of his birth. It wasn't his fault that they were dirt poor due to that fact that his mother couldn't get, much less keep, any jobs. Not even working the corners.

But she didn't seem to understand that it wasn't his fault at all. No, she continued to blame all of her problems on him; punish him for her mistakes. He learned not to cry as a baby, for she'd hit him until he'd shut up. He learned to walk at an early age, needing a mode of transportation to manuver his way to the "kitchen" to feed himself. Most importantly, he learned to take whatever pain was given to him without complaining; to roll with the punches.

Finally, one day when he was five, someone heard the strangled cries of a child and called CPS. When they got there he was beaten so badly that he had to be rushed to a hospital, staying there for a month. After he was discharged, he was told that he would be staying at the local orphanage. They said none of his relatives wanted him. Not even his dad. That landed a blow.

But things got no better once he began living at the orphanage. One could even say things went downhill. He was picked on for being the small, thin kid. For having messy blue-black hair and black eyes. For being pale. He spent his days sitting in the corner of the room he shared, thinking about nothing in particular. His roommate's gang would come and go, sending the occasional condensending sneer toward him. They never tried to talk to him or ask any questions. He was nobody.

That became official a couple months into his stay at the hellhole. A newcomer asked him what his name was after he saw him sitting alone at lunch. The whole room went quiet. That was when he realized it. He had no idea. He had no name.

"I-I-I d-don't have o-one." he had said

The newbie looked at him...and he laughed.

From that day on he was known as Nobody. Another blow was landed. He truly felt like nobody. Or should he say Nobody. He was constantly teased and tormented. There was never a day when his skin was clear of bruises and his body didn't ache. But he rolled with the punches.

And he cracked.

When he was of age, he was told that he had to attend an actual school. He realized he would need a name. One does not simply go about as 'Nobody'. But what to pick?

Gray, he had decided. Gray was a gloomy color, that often symbolized depression. Gray was a dull, faded color that made things seem worn-out. Gray was nothing significant; not pretty like pink, cool like blue or fiesty like red. It blended in and faded into the background, letting the other, more vivid colors shine. Gray was downright ugly. A disgraceful eyesore.

Gray decided that fit him perfectly.

Gray was undeucated, having never been taught anything of any kind. He knew how to spell and write and do basic math, of course, But that was it, and that was not a good way to start middle school.

Stupid. That was waht they all called him. He was the stupid, poor, skinny kid from the orphanage that sat in the corner of every class, sinking into the wall. He tried his best, but that wasn't enough. It was impossible to go from only knowing addition, subtraction, multiplication and division to doing Algebra. It was difficult to go from simply knowing how to write to composing five-paged essays in cursive. The teachers got frustrated with him for not being at the same level as the other students. They didn't see that he tried really hard to understand the concepts. His peers didn't know that he wasn't stupid, he was just uneducated. And he got bullied for that. They said he was as simple as his name. They pushed him into walls and stuff him into lockers. They threw pencils at him during class and got him in trouble for it. They ganged up on him in groups and beat the crap out of him. But he absorbed it all and didn't complain.

And he broke.

Gray somehow managed to graduate from eighth grade and move to highschool. He now lived in a separate building near the orphanage for older kids. It wasn't really an orphanage anymore, but a 'home for unwanted teens with nowhere to go'. Not many people lived there, thus reducing the amount he was bullied away from school.

He had thought middle school was hell. Oh, he couldn't have been more wrong. Compared to highschool, middle school was a rainbow-colored Candyland complete with bunnies, grassy feilds, and unicorns. The school he attended was four times the size of the middle school; meaning there was about four times as many people there. He had felt even smaller navigating through the loud, crowded hallways; feeling unwanted eyes burning into his back. He still sat in the corner in all his classes and he still tried his hardest to grasp the concepts that were taught. It still got him nowhere. He was a C average kid with a low F in math. And everybody seemed to know it. Kids from his old school told other kids about him. And he was picked on by three times more people than he was used to. He caught glances and sneers from everyone that was someone. He picked up whispers of 'dumbass', 'retard', 'homeless' and 'scum'. And much worse. It seemed that everyone was out to get him, to shove him hard against the walls or trip him in the courtyard or spontaneously convulse when he was near. He was beat up about twice every week, once if luck was with him. And he could deal with that.

Until things escalated. Teachers yelled at him in front of the whole class, saying he was stupid, worthless scum that didn't assert himself. He was shoved to point where could be called throwing into multiple walls or lockers; sometimes guys played a twisted game of 'catch' with him. People called names at him from across the hall and everyone in the vicinity would laugh at him. He was assalted in the bathroom twice.

And he shattered.

One night Gray sat on the dusty floor of his tiny, dark room. In his hand he held a knife with a six inch long blade.

He stared at the knife, musing at how in seemed to sparkle in the moonlight streaming through the small window. He pressed the cool edge to his wrist and held it there for a bit. Then he pressed harder, making a small indent, with blood welling up to form a perfect crimson pearl on his pale skin. He dug the blade in deeper, elicting a wince as a steady stream of blood trickled down his skinny arm towards the white sleeve of his school uniform. At the sight of his uniform Gray became angry, digging the knife into his wrist and harshly moving it to the side; causing a hiss of pain and a stream of red liquid pouring from the deep gash he had just created.

He giggled in anticipation and slashed at his wrist just below the place he had previously cut. More blood added to the flowing red river that led to the waterfall that led to pool of crimson staining the wooden floor.

He slashed again.

And again.

And again.

Once his arm began shaking from loss of blood, Gray switched the knife to his other hand, running the stained blade vertically down his arm to his hand. For a second there was just a red line until small pearls began to form along said line. When more pearls began to form, the former ones ran down the side of his arm making thin stripes that left small droplets on his pants.

Gray thought it looked beautiful.

Turning his head, Gray's dark eyes settled on the packet he was supposed to read for tomorrow. He chuckled. _'Won't be needing that anymore.' _He then plunged the knife deeper into his arm, digging it across the shallow line already there. He let the blood flow down to his fingers, where droplets formed at the tips before falling off, one by one, onto the packet; where the dark crimson drops covered the words on the paper. Gray then took the knife and slashed shorter horizontal gashes across the longer one, making his arm look like it had a giant bloody stitch going down it.

He then dropped the knife, as he had lost too much blood in his arms. He stared at the packet, to find the words melting together as the dark blood seeped into the paper. He looked down to the floor, and laughed at the sight of the evergrowing crimson river underneath him.

But Gray was not satisfied. He wanted more. More pain, more blood. He wanted the physical pain from the cuts to drain away his emotional pain. He wanted the beautiful red river under him to become an ocean illuminated by the moonlight. But his arms were shaking and already covered in crimson.

Growling, Gray looked around his tiny, plain room. He then found something truly intriguing to him. It was a head. It was a head with messy blue-black hair that shown in the moonlight. A head with a pale face with wild black eyes and a crazed, demented smile. It was his face. To him it was an ugly face. He wanted to make it beautiful. Beautiful like his wrists and the red pool under him.

So he held the kife with his stronger arm and traced a line along his prominent jawline. He was not happy with the bit of blood the bruised skin produced. The face in the mirrior wasn't happy either; it was frowning. He would make it smile. Gray put the twisted grin back on and held the blade to the end of one side of his lips. Then he pressed down and made a gash that ended close to his ear, parallel to the tip of his nose. Satisfied with the stream of blood pouring from the right side of his face, he proceeded to do the same thing on the left side. Once finished with his "smile", Gray examined himself in the cracked mirrior. The long cuts matched perfectly with the line of his lips, making it look like he was wearing a huge, creepy smile. To top it off, the lines were bleeding profusely, staining his collar and making running lines down the front of his white uniform. He thought the head now looked beautiful; with the crazy eyes and elongated twisted grin.

Yet it wasn't enough. Why wasn't it enough? The crimson river had become quite large, his arms were numb and could barely hold the knife and face hurt like hell. So what was wrong?

He was still alive. That was the problem.

Gray looked down at himself, his insane eyes tracing the bloody lines that ran down his white shirt. Dark red blood on a bright white shirt. The contrast was beautiful. He wanted more.

Gray grasped the knife with two shaking hands and pushed himself into a kneeling position. He then held the knife so that the blade was two inches away from his flat stomache. He stared down at his skinny, shaking arms with determination. He took a deep breath and then dug the blade deep into the center of his stomache.

He gasped. Pain erupted in his abdomen, causing him to let out a sharp breath. Blood gushed from the wound, streaking down the white uniform and his legs, until it the blood met with the crimson pool that was becoming greater by the second. He pulled the knife out of himself, breathing hard. He could feel the life draining out of him, just like all the blood that looked so beautiful on the wooden floor, illuminated by the moonlight. He was dying. Quickly.

He chuckled. Finally, an end to all the teasing and the tormenting. An end to all the memories and nightmares that plagued him every hour. He was laughing now; a sad yet insane laugh. Finally! An end to this pathetic period of time that couldn't truly be called a "life". He never truly lived. And that realization hurt.

He laughed maniacally as he realized what hurt more than the taunts and punches and bruises. He laughed at how something so seemingly _stupid _could be the source for so much pain.

And he laughed as he dug the blade deep into the source of all the pain in his world. He dug his blade deep...

Into his heart.

**...**

**Dafug did I just read/write?**

**That seriously scared me...really...**

**Ermm...I'm not that happy with it. I need to make it beautiful!*maniacal laughter***

**No. Just no...O_O~~~~**

**Well if you read the whole thing, please tell me what you thought about it! I'm REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY curious!**

**Hey you just read this,**

**And I know I'm crazy,**

**But there's a review button...**

**So tell me what you thought maybe!**

**Aannnd I'm off to the asylum now~**

**Ciao, my friends!**


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